


The Teachers of Dean Winchester

by carabc03



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester may be in later chapters, Mentions of neglect, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Teachers, Weechesters, Young Dean, Young Sam, but not exactly an AU, but they grow up as the chapters go on, confused teachers, just teachers being annoying in general, lil innocent preschool Dean, meddlesome teachers, mentions of John Winchester - Freeform, school story, this fic may include Castiel or other canon characters in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carabc03/pseuds/carabc03
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know that Dean Winchester went to tons of schools over the years, and in this story we look at some of the teachers Dean had. From kindergarten through high school, this shows the story through the eyes of teachers who listen to a young Dean's tales of monsters and an older Dean's unexplainable injuries. As we all know, Dean wasn't exactly on the honor roll, but that didn't mean he wasn't an unforgettable student in his own way. This story basically shows Dean's evolution from an angsty preschooler to a careless smart alec teenager.<br/>I'm not too great at summaries, but please give the story a shot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preschool: Mrs. Rexton

**Author's Note:**

> For the first chapter, Dean will be in preschool, just a few months after Mary's death.  
> (sidenote- this story is also posted on fanfiction.net)

It was odd.

Dean Winchester had looked like a troublemaker from the beginning- he’d been wearing a leather jacket and had a militaristic haircut, and had simply stepped out of a sleek black muscle car without so much as a backwards glance, unlike the other kindergartners, who shrieked at the mere thought of being left behind by their equally teary-eyed parents. He hadn't said goodbye to the driver, and he hadn't been escorted in, only dropped off. Who drops their kid off without a goodbye on the first day of kindergarten? 

Everything about the child had depicted Dean to be one of those kids- the ones who was constantly yanking girls’ braids or making fun of the smaller kids or ripping up projects during arts and crafts. 

And yet, the first thing that he had said to the teacher was, “Hi, are you Mrs. Rexton?” his big green eyes had studied her, and a toothy grin spread across his face as he reached a chubby toddler hand out.

At first, Mrs. Rexton had been surprised- what five year old offers a handshake?- but after a second, she had smiled and confirmed her name. “Yes, and what’s your name, sweetie?”

“I'm Dean Winchester,” he’d informed her somewhat proudly.

That was three days ago. Now, Mrs. Rexton has been watching him. He's unnervingly observant for a child. Whenever he enters a room, he scans it, as if trying to find some potential threat hidden in the confines of the kindergarten. 

For another thing, he never screams and plays like the other children. He doesn't associate with his classmates much, usually preferring to color by himself in a corner. 

Dean isn't unfriendly when the other kids approach him, but his sentences are quick, concise; the only word to describe him is tolerant. He doesn't like the other students, he tolerates them. He doesn't enjoy conversing, he tolerates it. He doesn't appreciate anything about school, it seems: he simply tolerates it. That bothers Mrs. Rexton, because five year olds don't tolerate- they cry, and scream, and complain, and fuss if they don't like something. They don't silently sit in a corner and deal with it.

Noticing his dedication to drawing, Mrs. Rexton decides to do an artistic activity, hoping she can use it as a way to better understand the quiet boy.

“Alright, class, how many of you are afraid of something?”

The children all raise their hands, shouting out their fears- except for Dean. He silently puts his arm up, a haunted look crossing his young face. It’s an expression that has no right to be associated with a toddler, and she wonders briefly what could possibly have put it there.

Mrs. Rexton beams at her students. “Wonderful! Settle down, now,” she instructs gently before continuing. “Now, most of you like to draw, right? Well, today we’re going to draw what we’re most afraid of! Maybe it will help you be less scared of it, and wouldn't that be exciting?”

The class cheers, except for Dean, who warily absorbs this information before making his way to the supply table, which holds paper and drawing materials. He gets to work without saying a word, while the other kids chatter excitedly about what they’re going to draw.

Mrs. Rexton makes her way around the table, stopping a few times to give praise or ideas. When she reaches Dean’s seat, she stops cold. He’s drawing a blonde woman with red scribbles on her stomach, presumably blood or an injury. Her hair is billowing around her, and her limbs are splayed out, her mouth a black circle, gaping open in a silent scream. Dean is drawing blazes of red, orange, and yellow around her- it looks like fire.

“Now, what's this?” Mrs. Rexton gets out, forcing a smile on her face as she looks down at the young boy.

“It's the night my mommy died,” he explains quietly, not looking up.

The teacher’s heart stops- she’s taught children with deceased parents, of course, but not without a notification beforehand telling her to be careful around the subject.

“I'm sorry, sweety. When did that happen?” She prods, even though she shouldn't ask.

“Four months ago,” he responds innocently, and Mrs. Rexton’s heart clenches in sympathy- she hadn't realized it was so recent.

“Well, you're very brave for handling it so well,” she tells him, and she means it.

“S’not like I had a choice,” he mutters.

Mrs. Rexton finally notices his newest addition to the drawing- a small figure holding a flaming bundle in his arms.

“What's that?” She asks.

“That's me, holding Sammy. But, see, he's on fire here ‘cause that's my biggest fear- not getting him out in time,” he explains.

“What do you mean?” the teacher questions.

“I carried him out of the fire, ‘cause it happened in his nursery and he's little so he can't run like me. So Daddy gave him to me and told me to run and get him out, so I did and he tried to get Mommy but he couldn't ‘cause she was burning.”

Mrs. Rexton looks at her student in shock, hating the matter-of-fact way he says it. This sounds like the stuff of nightmares, not something a kid should have to deal with. “I'm so sorry, honey,” she says sympathetically.

“You sound like Mommy,” Dean tells her quietly. For the first time, he looks up at her, and she sees his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. “I miss her.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she tells him kindly. “But you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think she’d be really proud of you.”

“Daddy says he thinks she would be, too. But he says we can't know whether she’d be proud or not ‘cause she's dead, and the only way to make her really proud would be to avenge her by killing what killed her,” Dean responds.

This admission startles her, and she chokes out, “What do you mean, kill what killed her? Didn't she die in a fire?”  
“Daddy says I'm not s’posed to talk about it, ‘cause he might get in trouble, but you seem nice. I trust you,” he starts with a smile that would have been heartwarming in any other context. “She died in a fire, but only ‘cause someone cut her stomach open and lit the house on fire ‘cause she owed them something from a long time ago. Daddy says that he's glad they didn't take Sammy, too, but he wants us to get revenge so we can make her happy and she can be at peace and she won't be sad that she's dead anymore.”

Mrs. Rexton is starting to get a sick understanding of what Dean is talking about: his father is mentally ill, possibly violently so. “Dean, honey, has your daddy ever hurt you?” She asks gently.

“Only when we’re training, but it’s not ‘cause he's mean. It's only so I can be strong so I can fight the real bad guys and be a hero like him!” He beams up at Mrs. Rexton, pride for his dad shining in his gaze.

“How does he… train you?”

“It changes when we hunt different stuff. For demons, he helps me fight with punching and stuff. That hurts sometimes, but it helps me be a good fighter, so it's okay! If it's for stuff like werewolves, he helps me practice shooting. He teaches me different things for different monsters, so I know a lot of stuff!”

“Listen, sweetheart,” she begins kindly, “I would love to meet your daddy. Do you think you could ask him to come in for a meeting?” In reality, Mrs. Rexton wants to call CPS, but she needs to meet the dad first and make sure it’s not just a story spun from the mind of a five year old. Still, you can't really say that to a toddler, so she wants to give Dean the illusion of just wanting to talk to his dad.

“Yeah!” Dean agrees enthusiastically. “I'll ask him after school!” He sounds overwhelmingly excited, and Mrs. Rexton feels a wave of guilt for her lies. However, if he is being hurt by his dad, it’s her responsibility to do her best to keep him safe.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The next day at school, Mrs. Rexton waits expectantly for Dean to show up with his father’s answer. However, the boy never appears. That’s odd, she thinks. He's never missed school before, let alone without a note.

Dean doesn't show up for the next three days. Finally, on the fourth day, Mrs. Rexton receives a note that Dean Winchester has transferred schools. This only fuels her belief that he is being abused- why else would his father take him out at the request of a conference? Still, there’s no longer anything Mrs. Rexton can do. She will never see the toddler again.  
The teacher tries her hardest not to think about the boy with the sandy blonde hair, the brilliant green eyes, the dead-beat dad and the just-plain-dead mother. All the same, in all her years of teaching, she never quite forgets him.


	2. First Grade: Mr. Dunket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Dean's experience in first grade, with his teacher Mr. Dunket. Since I can never resist some angst, I referenced John drinking too much and Dean not understanding why his dad acts so funny when he has too much of the 'burning apple juice'. Hope you enjoy!

Dean Winchester enters Mr. Dunket’s first grade class halfway through the school year. When he walks in on his first day- a random Tuesday in early May- he doesn't seem especially concerned with the fact that he's surrounded by complete strangers and pre-established friend groups. He just enters with a too-big leather jacket and a lazy smile, giving a friendly hand gesture that Mr. Dunket can't quite decide whether it's a wave or a salute.

“I'm Mr. Dunket, it’s nice to meet you. You must be Dean Winchester.”

Dean confirms this with a slight nod of his head, not saying anything. He doesn't seem especially nervous or shy, which is a little surprising since he has an entire classroom of strangers staring at him.

“Is there anything about yourself you’d like to share with the class?”

The boy silently shakes his head, and the teacher is beginning to wonder if he's mute when he asks quietly, “where should I sit?” 

“You can sit in the middle row, next to Kyle.” Mr. Dunket instructs, and Kyle raises his hand slightly so Dean knows where to go. “Now, who wants to explain what we were doing? Yes, Veronica?”

The girl named Veronica turns to look at Dean and says, “We’re making mother’s day cards! The paper is on the table right there, and there’s lots of colors! I'm making mine pink.”

When Veronica describes the activity, all color drains from Dean’s face, but he acknowledges the girl’s explanation with a quiet “thanks.”

Once the initial excitement of a new student has worn off, the other children return to working on their cards, while Dean just stares blankly at the white piece of paper he’s selected for himself. After a few minutes, he raises his hand.

Mr. Dunket walks over to the boy’s desk. “Yes? Do you need help spelling something?”

“No, I just-” Dean pauses, carefully debating his next words before settling with a cautious, “can I make a card for my dad instead?”

“Sorry, no. We’re going to make cards for our dads on father’s day, but since it’s mother’s day, they're going to be for our moms for now.”

“I don't…” Dean trails off, looking upset, before blurting out, “I don't have a mom.”

“Oh,” Mr. Dunket says simply, somewhat stunned. When he pulls himself together, he instructs Dean, “well, do you remember her at all?”

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “She only died a year ago, of course I remember.”

Mr. Dunket feels a pang of sympathy, but decides it would be unprofessional to express it, instead saying, “write to her. Tell her things that you want her to know about your life. Maybe she turned into an angel, and she can read it over her shoulder.”

Dean frowns, considering this, before smiling slightly and giving a nod of understanding. He starts writing, slowly at first, before he increases in speed. His handwriting is small and neat, and Mr. Dunket reads as Dean writes.

 

Dear Mommy, I really miss you. I wonder if you miss me too. Do you miss Sammy? He's okay, in case you were wondering. I got him out when the house was on fire. Daddy is sorry he couldn't get you out, too. He's been different since you died. He drinks a lot, but I don't know what he's drinking. It looks kinda like apple juice, except he acts funny if he drinks a lot and it makes my nose burn a little when I smell it. He's sadder now, and sometimes I can hear him crying at night. He misses you, too. My new teacher says you're reading this over my shoulder and that you're an angel. You liked angels. You told me every night that angels were watching over us. Sometimes I think that you were wrong, cause if they were watching why did they let you die? It makes me sad to think like that, because I'm really afraid that if they weren’t protecting us then maybe they don't care. I try not to think about that because if I do I get scared. Before the fire, when I got scared or sad you would sing ‘Hey Jude’ and it would make me feel better. I miss that. Daddy doesn't sing. He used to, sometimes, but never since you left. He scares me sometimes, and I think if you were alive you would sing ‘Hey Jude’ to him and he wouldn't be as angry all the time. I don't really know what he's angry at. I think it changes. Sometimes he's mad at Sammy cause the fire started in his nursery, and sometimes he's mad at me cause I could’ve protected you. Most of the time Daddy’s mad at himself, though. when he's mad at himself and he's had too much of the burning apple juice, he gets loud and he yells at you. He asks why you left and says he needs you and says he doesn't know how to raise two boys all on his own and that you have to help him. He keeps shouting until he realizes that you're not listening. After that he starts crying and it's like when you and him used to fight except there’s no apology and hugging and making an apple pie and feeling better. Sometimes I'll do what I used to do when you would fight and I'll tell him that it's okay and that I'll never leave him. I don't think he always believes me cause you used to tell him that too but you left. Mommy, I miss you. You're supposed to tuck me in and sing me goodnight songs and kiss me on the forehead and give me band aids and cut the crusts off my sandwiches and make me feel better and be alive but you're not. I don't know if you're reading this cause after you died I'm not so sure angels are real anymore, but if you are, I love you and so do Daddy and Sammy. I wish you could be here and I sometimes get really sad when I know you're not, but I know you want me to be brave so I try and my old teacher says you would be proud of me and I hope that's true.

 

Dean stops writing after that. “I'm finished,” he tells Mr. Dunket, not noticing the tears that formed in the teacher’s eyes when he was reading the heartbreaking letter.

“You have quite a talent for writing,” Mr. Dunket tells his student when he's gotten his emotions under control. “I think you should show that to your dad and he can see that you understand his grief and that you feel it too.”

“You weren’t supposed to read it!” Dean says angrily, a bit of fear shining in his eyes.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize. You're right, reading it was an invasion of privacy,” Mr. Dunket apologizes guiltily. “Still, I think he would like to see it.”

“Okay. I'll show it to him,” Dean agrees quietly. “After school today.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Dean doesn't come back to school the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Weeks pass, then months, then finally the school year is over and Dean hasn't returned. Mr. Dunket is disappointed. He liked the kid, and he really was gifted in writing. The teacher wishes he could find out how the dad reacted to the letter Dean wrote.

Mr. Dunket walks over to the desk that Dean had claimed on that one Tuesday when he made the card. It had remained empty for the rest of the year. The teacher absently strokes the desk. Then he notices something odd- there’s the corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the desk. He opens the desk to find a crumpled note, reading:

 

Dear Mr. Dunket, thank you for having me write to my mom. It really helped. I don't think I'll be in school here very long since we move a lot, but I actually liked you and I don't like many teachers cause most of them are boring but you're not. You helped me talk to my mom and I hadn't been able to do that since she died and it made me feel better. I'm going to start talking to her at night because after I wrote that letter I started to feel like she can hear me and she still cares and I want to talk to her some more even if she won't talk back. I think I'll talk to her about Daddy because lately he's been drinking a lot of the burning apple juice and he's really angry and this time I think he's not angry at me or Sammy or himself I think he's just mad at the world, and a lot of the time I am too cause I think it must be a pretty bad place if it took Mommy away. Except he has the burning apple juice to help him and I don't so I just have to deal with it. I think telling my mom that will help, and I think I'll listen to “Hey Jude” tonight even though Daddy doesn't like it when I listen to that song because it makes him think of her. That's why I listen to it, cause it makes me think of her. I think it hurts him to think of her cause he's thinking of how he doesn't have her anymore but I'm just thinking of the time when I did have her and that makes me happy. Thank you for showing me how to talk to her and helping me think maybe angels are watching over me after all. From, Dean Winchester.

Underneath the writing is a crudely drawn smiley face, and Mr. Dunket smiles right back at it. He feels completely satisfied for the first time since Dean left, because now he knows that the boy he grew so fond of in such a short period of time is going to be okay.


	3. Third Grade: Mrs. Honto

Dean Winchester waltzes into Mrs. Honto’s class unannounced in the middle of math class, with no parent, no note, no referral, just a leather jacket at least five sizes too big and a black eye. He doesn't even have basic school supplies; he just appears in her classroom with no warning, expecting to be taught.

“Are you the brother of one of the students here?” She asks, confused as to why this strange boy is appearing in her room.

“No, I go to school here now. Today is my first day,” he tells her confidently.

“Have you been registered?” Mrs. Honto asks; she wasn't told that a new student would be joining her, and she can't imagine that the principal would leave her uninformed if he’d been aware of the arrangement.

The boy shrugs, seemingly unconcerned with his unjustified presence. “Who knows? If not, I will be soon enough. Anyway, I'm Dean.” he holds his hand out expectantly, and the stunned teacher cautiously shakes it.

For the first time since his entry, Mrs. Honto notices his black eye. (This is admittedly a little surprising, since the injury isn't exactly inconspicuous) “What happened to your eye?” She asks, frowning- it’s not every day that strange children enter her room sporting huge facial bruises.

He narrows his eyes, looking at her somewhat suspiciously. “A demon punched me,” he informs her, looking completely serious despite the ridiculous lie.

The teacher thinks it best not to push Dean at the moment- she gets the sense that it won't get her anywhere. Instead, she gives him a firm, “wait here,” before going to the phone on the other side of the room and calling the principal, Mr. Lee.

“Yes?” he asks when he picks up.

“Has a Dean Winchester been registered here?”

“I'm talking to his father right now- he's being enrolled as we speak. Why do you ask?” Mr. Lee responds, sounding somewhat surprised.

“He's in my classroom right now, he says he goes to school here now. Should I include him in the class?”  
There’s a long pause on Mr. Lee’s end, and Mrs. Honto hears the sound of papers shuffling and a gruff man’s voice asking, “is there a problem?”

“There are no problems, and I just finished registering Dean, so I suppose that he can start here today,” Mr. Lee finally says, answering both the teacher and the owner of the deep voice, presumably Dean’s father.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Honto says quickly before hanging up and turning back to her students.

Dean regards her with a small smile before sitting down at an empty desk, looking up at the teacher expectantly.

“Alright, we were working on a math packet to get prepared for a test. We worked on it yesterday, too, so you’ll need to do some of it for homework to catch up,” Mrs. Honto tells the boy. She has a reputation for being strict, but she disagrees with that description. She can be sweet and kind, as long as the students know she’s in charge.

The other students return to their own work, no longer interested in Dean. Now that they’re all minding their own business, she can have a more private discussion with the new child. “What really happened to your eye?”

“I told you. A demon did it before I could exorcise it,” he reminds her.

“I don't want your fantasy story, I want the truth.”

“And that's what I'm telling you. It's not my fault that you don't believe me,” he says, shrugging.

“Dean, I need to know: is someone hurting you at home?” she asks bluntly.

Instead of looking shocked or scared by the question like most people would, he laughs. It’s not a bitter laugh; he's genuinely amused. “Right,” he gasps out, “that's what's going on here. Look, I get that you're worried about me, since that's kind of your responsibility. But I don't need the CPS getting involved, they just screw things up and punish the good guys. So I'd really appreciate it if you could just teach me rather than getting all freaked out about my home life. Isn't the whole education thing kind of in your job description?”

Mrs. Honto stares at the boy, shocked by the blatant disrespect. “It's my job to make sure you're not being abused. But if you're not willing to accept help, there’s nothing I can do beyond that. However, I will not tolerate you speaking to me like that. If it happens again, I'll call you parents.”

Something she's said has Dean holding back laughter once again. “Good luck with that,” he snorts, but he finally does as he's been asked and starts on the math questions.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The next day, Mrs. Honto is unsurprised, if a little disappointed, to discover that Dean hasn't done the homework he was assigned.

“I had more important things to do,” he tells her dismissively.

“Mr. Winchester, I will have to notify your father if this behavior continues,” she threatens.

Dean smirks. “Like he’d care. I probably won't even go to school here for more than two weeks, so it's not like it really matters.”

Mrs. Honto is confused. “Why wouldn't he care?”

“Like I said, I've got more important things to be doing.”

“Alright, maybe your dad wouldn't care, but wouldn't someone else? Your mom?” Mrs. Honto tries, hoping to find an influential person in Dean's life.

“My mom's dead,” he spits.

“Fine, then. Grandparents? A sibling?” Mrs. Honto spares no sympathy for the motherless boy, instead continuing her questions, and for the first time she sees a flicker of surprise, then begrudging respect, in his green eyes.

“I guess Sammy would care,” he admits.

“Use him as your motivation, then. Don't you want him to be proud of you?”

Dean thinks about this, before quietly saying, “I'll do the homework tonight.”

When she hears this, Mrs. Honto feels an unexpected surge of affection for the troublesome boy. “Good,” she says, smiling slightly. “Do it for Sammy.”

“Don't call him that,” Dean says, in the same quiet voice but this time with slight ferocity. “Only I call him that. To everyone else, he's Sam.”

“Alright,” she surrenders. “Do it for him. Make Sam proud of you.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The next day, when Mrs. Honto collects the written prompt, Dean has his work completed. “For Sammy,” he tells her when he turns it in. The teacher is impressed, and offers him a smile.

Later that night, when she reads the writing assignment, she is surprised to discover that Dean has answered the question thoughtfully and related it to his personal life. He's really talented, she thinks. In some parts, it's emotional, in some parts it's funny, in some parts it's probing, in some parts it's intelligent, and in all parts it's incredible. Mrs. Honto tells Dean this when she sees him in class the next day.

“It was for my brother,” he reminds her.

“Even if it wasn't for me, it was still beautifully written. You're a smart boy, you know that?”

She expects a cocky response, but he looks shocked. His green eyes widen, and his mouth falls slightly open. After a second he narrows his eyes, as if doubting the sincerity of her words. “I- really?”

Mrs. Honto feels a pang of sadness- this boy shouldn't be so surprised at a basic compliment. Children should be cherished and treasured and complimented every day by their parents, so why is he this amazed by simply being told that he's smart? Has Dean honestly never thought that about himself? “Of course.”

He frowns, not seeming to believe her, but after a second gives her a small smile. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he seems to mean it.

“Today’s Friday, so I assign more work than most days since you have a longer time to do it. I want you to finish the math packet I gave you on Tuesday, and answer one of these questions-” she hands Dean a piece of paper with several writing prompts “- and explain your answer. It should be at least three paragraphs long.”

With every word Mrs. Honto speaks, the boy’s face falls a little more. “I- we’re going away for the weekend. I don't think I'll have time to do it.”

“I'm sorry, I don't want to give work while you're going on a vacation, but rules are rules and homework is a responsibility.”

“It's not really a vacation,” Dean says, sounding a little angry. “Trust me, I'd rather stay home and do work.”

“Then what is it?” Mrs. Honto asks, confused by the boy’s response.

Dean looks away. “I can't tell you.”

The teacher shakes her head sadly- Is he lying to her to get out of work? She thought he was above that. “I expect this work to be completed by Monday,” she says simply.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

On Monday, Dean walks in with a deep cut above his left eyebrow and a dark bruise on his jaw that only makes his fading black eye seem worse. This worries Mrs. Honto, especially when she thinks about what Dean said about his ‘vacation’ on Friday.

“What happened?” She asks, furrowing her brows as she looks at the boy with concern.

“I did the homework,” he says, smiling weakly. He looks so proud of himself, Mrs. Honto hates to burst his bubble.

“Dean, how did you get these injuries?”

The boy’s face falls, and his disappointment is palpable. “I told you, it wasn't exactly a vacation. My dad and I had work to do.”

“What type of work could have possible given you that cut?” She asks.

He shrugs. “I can't tell you. I'm sorry.” When he sees her doubtful expression, he rushes on to assure her, “It's nothing personal, really. I can't tell anyone.”

“Did your dad-”

“No!” Dean snaps, interrupting her. “How many times do I have to tell you, my dad doesn't hurt me?”

“Until I'm sure you're not lying to me,” Mrs. Honto tells him.

“Well, I'm not,” he says, sounding a little angry and looking exhausted.

“I'd like to talk to your father,” she decides. “Could you ask him if we could schedule a meeting?”

“I suppose I could ask, but it wouldn't get you anywhere. He’d say no.”

“I'll call him, then,” she responds, going over to the phone.

Dean watches her, looking amused. “Good luck with that,” he says, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

“He gave the front office his phone number, so I have it, if that's what you're worried about.”

Now Dean can't suppress his chuckles. “Oh, did he?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

Mrs. Honto frowns in confusion, but dials up the number, waiting for a response. She hears a long dial tone, before a woman’s voice says, “the number you’re trying to reach is no longer in service. Please check-” the teacher hangs up the phone, before turning back to Dean. “Fine. What's his real number, then?”

Dean shrugs, laughing quietly. “How should I know? He changes it pretty much weekly.”

“Why would he change it so often?”

Dean’s expression turns serious. “We have to, for the same reason we have to move around all the time.”

“And what's that reason?” Mrs. Honto prods.

The boy considers this question, mulling it over, before finally saying slowly, “‘Cause our lives suck. ‘Cause that's the hand we were dealt. And even if it's not fun, it's what we gotta do.”

“Do what? And why is it you that has to do it?” Mrs. Honto asks, confused by the entire question.

“Can't find anyone else dumb enough,” he says, smiling softly.

Something in Dean’s voice tells Mrs. Honto not to ask any questions, and he returns to the worksheet he was doing. The teacher returns to her desk, but she continues to study the boy, trying to figure him out.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, Dean doesn't rush out with all the other students, trying to get as far away from the torturous school as fast as possible. Instead he stays at his desk, not working on anything, just sitting there in silence. When the classroom is completely empty except for him, Mrs. Honto clears her throat.

“Dean, school is over.”

“I know,” he says, sounding a little sad for reasons she can't begin to understand. Finally he turns to her, offering a hesitant smile. “For what it's worth, I think you're a really good teacher. I'll miss you.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Honto asks, worry creeping into her tone.

“We’re moving again soon. We haven’t stayed in one place this long for months. My dad finished his business here, so we’re leaving. We’ll be out of the state within a few hours.”

“You’ve barely been here a week!” the teacher says incredulously.

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “Yeah, I know.” Finally he starts getting up, gathering his things, before walking out the door into the empty hallway. Before he’s fully out, he turns around, giving her a grin, and saying, “Bye, Mrs. Honto.” Then he leaves. He doesn't look back.  
The teacher stares at the door, not quite sure how to respond. I liked the kid, she thinks. I’ll miss him, too. Even though she knows he’s long gone, even though she knows he can't hear her, even though she knows it won't make a difference, she stills whispers to the abandoned room, “Bye, Dean.”


	4. Sixth Grade: Mr. Lindento and Mrs. Ross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's experience in sixth grade (I skipped a few grades, I know, it's just because I really wanted to include Sammy in this.)

“I'm Dean Winchester,” the green eyed boy informs Mr. Lindento. The teacher eyes him with something close to suspicion- he looks a little too comfortable for a boy on his first day at a new school halfway through the year.

“And I suppose I'm your homeroom teacher. I also teach math, though your arrival was so sudden that we didn't have time to print you a schedule, so I'm not sure if I have you in my class- you might have Mrs. Ross,” he explains, studying the child as he talks. The boy is tall for his age, with short, sandy blonde hair. He’s wearing a large leather jacket that looks so old and tattered that it must have had a previous owner. The jacket in question is being worn over several other layers; a light grey T-shirt and an unbuttoned red flannel. He also wears a necklace- it has a black string rather than a chain, with some type of gold figure dangling from it. Dean sees him eyeing it and glares at him with something close to a warning in his eyes, and the teacher immediately looks away. Mr. Lindento feels rather silly for averting his gaze simply because of the unspoken threat of a twelve year old, but he can't help it. Something about the new boy is intimidating; from the way he's scanning the classroom as if looking for danger to the way he holds himself- Dean stands straight up in a rather militaristic fashion, with an almost challenging glint in his eyes, daring somebody to test him and see what he's capable of when pushed.

“Who teaches the dumb math class?” Dean asks casually.

Mr. Lindento chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Who teaches the dumb math class, you or Mrs. Ross?” he repeats impatiently. “That's the one I’ll be in.”

The teacher frowns. “I don't like the use of the word ‘dumb’ to describe the students who struggle with some material. I find it very disrespectful, and that's not a good first impression.”  
Dean seems unfazed by the warning. “Right, then. Who teaches the ‘mathematically challenged’ kids?” he modifies mockingly.

“If you must know, Mrs. Ross does. I hope you're more polite to her than you are to me. If you're not, your parents will hear about this.”

Dean smirks, as if the teacher has just made a joke and Dean's the only one who knows the punch line. “Have fun with that.”  
“Watch your tone!” Mr. Lindento snaps, not liking this boy’s rudeness.

Dean immediately stiffens. “Yes, sir,” he says. Mr. Lindento is about to chastise him again when he realizes that the child isn't saying ‘sir’ in an ironic way; he really means it. The teacher frowns. Where is the respect coming from, and why is this sixth grader acting like he's in the military and Mr. Lindento is the drill sergeant? Still, it's a vast improvement to the earlier sarcasm, so the teacher decides not to question it. “Thank you.”

Dean nods tensely, still eyeing his teacher dubiously as if he's going to bite the student’s head off at any moment. “Sorry,” he responds quietly, and it sounds sincere.

“That's alright, although I expect better behavior in the future, understand?” Mr. Lindento orders sternly, and the boy nods again.

“Sorry, sir.”

 

Mrs. Ross has been warned by Mr. Lindento that the new kid, Dean Winchester, can be sarcastic and rude, so the boy’s perfect behavior and respectful silence is unexpected to say the least. She finds herself glancing warily at him throughout the class period, but every time she looks he's working quietly. When the period is over, he glances up from his paper to find Mrs. Ross staring at him. She isn't even aware she's doing it until he squints questioningly at her, causing the teacher to look away, slightly flustered. Still, he comes up to her when all the students have filed out.

“Is there a problem?” Dean asks. From anyone else it might have sounded rude, but he manages to turn it into a polite inquiry by adding a charming smile.

“No, no!” She hurries to deny it. “Sorry, I just… couldn't remember who you were!” Mrs. Ross says. It's a lame excuse, and she weakly adds, “I'm terrible with names.”

Dean’s raised eyebrows tell her that it's an even worse lie than she gave herself credit for. Still, he informs her, “my name is Dean,” sounding slightly bemused.

“Ah, Dean! Sorry for forgetting your name, I'll try and remember that,” Mrs. Ross says, even though she's fully aware that there’s no chance the child believes her.

“You do that,” he chuckles softly. Dean begins to leave the classroom, but turns back at the door. “Oh, one more thing, Mrs. Ross-”

The teacher nods, waiting for him to speak.

Dean smiles. “You should really tell Mr. Lindento not to gossip about me. It's kind of rude.”

With a final triumphant grin, the boy leaves the room before Mrs. Ross has a chance to respond. The teacher remains gaping at the empty doorframe where the troublesome student had stood a few seconds earlier.

 

The next day, Dean is the last one to arrive. He sprints, panting, into the classroom at 8:29. Though not technically late, Mr. Lindento still gives the boy a warning look. Dean gives him an apologetic shrug, and the teacher frowns in concern when the student winces at the movement. Before Mr. Lindento can say anything, the bell rings, signalling the start of first period.

Dean immediately leaves the classroom, and Mr. Lindento narrows his eyes. Is he hurt? _What happened? Is he okay?_ The teacher can't explain why, but he has an uneasy feeling about the apparent injury. He knows that Dean has Mrs. Ross last, so he decides to inform her about his concern so that she can see what's going on and maybe talk to him after class. He sends her a brief text, asking her to make sure the boy is okay and to watch him for any signs of pain when he raises his hand or moves his arm.

 

Mrs. Ross receives a text from Mr. Lindento just as the students begin to enter her classroom. It reads: _I think Dean Winchester’s shoulder/arm is hurt. Please keep an eye out to make sure it's nothing serious._ She frowns at the unusual message, but complies anyway when last period rolls around and he enters her room. Throughout the class, she studies the boy. Mrs. Ross realizes that her coworker is right; she noticed that when Dean dropped his pencil, he winced as he reached for it. She tries to be less obvious about it than she had been the previous day, but she continues to watch him for the remainder of first period, trying to find some reaction of pain. She sees a few small things and one significant; at one point when he's writing, he suddenly stops, screwing up his face and breathing deeply.

_Whatever this injury is, it must be pretty bad to be causing him this much pain,_ she thinks. When the class is over, she stops him while he tries to escape the room with the flow of students.

“Dean, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Fear flickers over the young boy’s features. “Am I in trouble?” he asks, his usual confidence gone.

“No, nothing like that. It's just that, a teacher has expressed concerns about you; they seem to think that you’re injured. During class, I had to agree with those suspicions- you looked like you were in pain. Do you know what that might be because of?” Mrs. Ross asks gently.

“My brother Sam and I were goofing off the other day- you know, play-fighting. Anyway, he jumped on my back, and I wasn't expecting it so I fell. I hit my shoulder on a table, and it bruised. It kind of hurts when I move my arm around too much, so that's probably what it was,” Dean explains. Mrs. Ross almost believes him, and the lie is a good one, but she sees the way his eyes flit away from her face as he speaks and instantly knows it's not the truth.

“Dean, honey, I need the truth,” she requests softly. 

Panic floods his face. “What do you mean? That is the truth.”

“I used to be the guidance counselor here, did you know that?” he shakes his head, casting his eyes to the floor. “And because of that, I know when people are lying. You are. Now, I hate to threaten you, but if you don't tell the truth I'm going to have to talk to your parents.”

“I have to go walk my brother home,” Dean says quickly, ignoring her concerns.

“Dean, wait!” Mrs. Ross calls after him as he leaves the room, but he pretends not to hear. She frowns. Why are Dean and Sam walking home from school by themselves? Why is no one driving them? Perhaps their parents are working. Still, shouldn't they hire a babysitter so they know their children got home safely?

_I’ll follow him,_ Mrs. Ross thinks, before immediately being shocked at her own ridiculous idea. I can’t do that. It's probably illegal, as well as none of my business. However, she justifies, she has suspicions about a dangerous home life. This could be dismissed as a concerned teacher. And, she has to admit, something about Dean intrigues her. Finally, she decides to go along with her somewhat insane plan. _I'll just follow him to see what kind of environment he lives in. I won't get involved unless I discover something dangerous._

Once her mind is made up, she leaves the classroom in a rush, just managing to go after Dean as he's disappearing around a corner. She trails after him at a safe distance, making sure to stay at least 15 yards away at all times. Mrs. Ross sees him enter a school, and realizes that he must be picking up his brother like he said. She goes a little closer, and a minute later Dean walks out with a younger boy, presumably Sam, in tow. He has shaggy brown hair, and is thin and a head shorter than Dean. The teacher speeds up a bit when she realizes they're talking, hoping to hear something from their conversation that might reveal something about their home life. She hears Sam talking about writing a short story in school, and Dean only partially listening, occasionally nodding to show he's paying attention despite the fact that he's clearly uninterested.

“...And then I wrote about how Mommy liked to sing that song, ‘Hey Jude’ as a lullaby and that she was a good singer even though I never even heard her sing but I think she was anyway.” Dean’s head snaps up when his little brother says this, and suddenly he's paying full attention.

“Don't talk about Mom. When you talk about her, people get concerned, and concerned people are dangerous. They get too nosy and ask too many questions that we can't answer. Don't talk about Mom or Dad and his job at school, okay?” Dean says, looking intensely at the younger boy to make sure he understands every word.

“Okay,” Sam says in a small voice, and his brother’s face softens.

“She was a good singer,” Dean reveals in an attempt to lighten the mood, and Sam immediately perks up at this new information. “She was the best singer I'd ever heard, and whenever she sang ‘Hey Jude’ I would feel better.”

“Tell me more about her!” The smaller boy demands, listening with rapt attention, clearly trying to commit every word to memory.

“She would make tomato rice soup when I was sick. I once asked her why because all my other friends’ moms made chicken noodle, and she said it was because it's the kind of soup her mom made her when she was little. She told me every night before bed that angels were watching over me. That was-” Dean cuts himself off, stopping suddenly.

“What?” Sam asks, stopping too.

“That was the last thing she ever said to me,” Dean finishes quietly, and Sam sobers, the joy of learning about his mother vanishing as he's reminded of her implied death. “No more questions,” Dean says, beginning to walk again. Sam follows.

Mrs. Ross continues to follow them, but slower now as she struggles to process the new information. _So their mother is dead._

The brothers walk in silence for a time, and Mrs. Ross is about to stop trailing them, sure she will learn nothing more about them today, when Dean suddenly stiffens and pauses. He leans in to whisper something to Sam, who nods before they continue. They walk at a slightly faster pace before Dean veers off to the left behind a building, and his brother follows.

Mrs. Ross frowns, turning the same way they did, to find two things; 1) it is a dead end. 2) it is completely empty. Just as she's trying to sort out how that's possible, she hears a gun cock from behind her. She freezes, heart pounding loudly, before turning slowly with her hands raised. The teacher is shocked to discover Dean pointing a pistol at her head with steady hands and a grim expression, Sam cowering just behind him.

“I knew something was wrong,” Dean says quietly, and he seems to be talking more to himself than her. “I knew you cared too much.”

He nudges his little brother, who pulls out a flask. He shoots his hand out, and Mrs. Ross is splashed with a liquid. She isn't sure what it is at first, but some drips into her mouth, and she identifies it as water.

Dean looks tense at first, but in a second, he lowers the gun, and a confused expression covers his face as he stares at the shocked woman. “But that doesn't make sense; you're not sizzling. Why aren't you sizzling?”

“What?!” She shrieks, and the boy flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, before his expression turns wary again. “Why were you following us?” Dean demands, and he raises the gun to her head once again.

She begins to tremble. “I-I thought you were being hurt at home. I followed you to make sure you were safe,” she admits, not wanting to lie to him while he's got a gun on her.

Shock flashes over both of the boys’ faces. “You- what?” Dean gets out.

The situation finally registers in Mrs. Ross’s mind, and a question finally occurs to her. “Hang on, you're eleven. Why do you have a gun?”

Dean’s face goes white as he tries to come up with a suitable answer, lowering the gun again. “I like to be prepared,” he responds lamely.

“And why did you expect me to sizzle when you threw water at me?” She asks cautiously. The boys don't seem insane, but then again, they _had_ just been prepared to shoot her.

Dean keeps his mouth firmly shut, but Sam pipes up. “It was holy water,” he corrects her, widening his eyes to convey the gravity of the distinction. “It’s s’posed to sizzle if you're a demon, and we thought you were ‘cause you were following us and we knew there was a demon around ‘cause our dad is hunting for it, only he hasn't found it yet so we thought it was you. But maybe it is, and you're just a special demon who doesn't burn with holy water, or maybe that was Daddy’s other flask, the one that's not for hunting and we can't touch, so that's why you didn't burn. Cause I don't think his other flask has holy water in it.” Sam narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Christo,” he adds randomly, studying her, and she frowns.

“What?”

The boy looks vaguely disappointed, as if he had hoped her response would be somewhat more interesting. “Nothing.”

“I didn't bring the wrong flask, Sammy.” Dean informs the younger boy, rolling his eyes as if it's the most ridiculous accusation imaginable. “I would never make a rookie mistake like that.”

"Well, you let the werewolf claw your shoulder!" Sam snaps indignantly. "That was a rookie mistake!"

Hurt flashes across Dean's face, and Sam looks about to apologize, but the older boy just mumbles, "forget it."

“Would either of you like to explain what the hell is going on?” Mrs. Ross demands, fear and anger taking over. “Or should I just call the cops on you for assault?”

“Um…” Dean begins, glancing anxiously at his little brother. Sam looks up at him with wide, scared eyes.

“Is she going to take us away from Daddy?” Sam asks quietly. “Is she going to tell them that he's hurting us and take us away like they did before? Because I don't want to leave.”

“No, Sammy. I promise I won't let that happen,” Dean assures him. “I guess there’s really no way around this, is there?” He asks, but it sounds like he's talking to Mrs. Ross now. “Fine. I'll tell you the truth then. We’re… hunters. We kill monsters and save the world from things that go bump in the night.”

“You're insane,” Mrs. Ross decides flatly. “You're absolutely mad.”

Dean scoffs. “I wish.”

“No, it's true!” Sam insists. “We hunt demons and werewolves and vampires and wendigos and chupacabras and shtrigas.” Dean winces at the last word, but Sam doesn't seem to notice. “We save lives.”

“You, a twelve year old an eight year old, save lives?”

“Yes,” Dean responds immediately. He raises his gun. “I bet I'm a better shot than you; I've been using guns since I was six. I'm probably stronger than you, too. Even with a bad shoulder.”

Mrs. Ross scoffs. “I'm sure.”

Dean doesn't respond, but he raises his eyebrows in a challenge. From Sam’s secretive smile and Dean’s confident stance, Mrs. Ross suddenly isn’t quite so sure that she could beat the sixth grader.

“So, before I get you in a straitjacket, perhaps you should tell me more about these… monsters you kill.” the teacher suggests. Suddenly something occurs to her. _Are these kids going out and murdering innocent people that they believe to be supernatural creatures? Have they been conditioned to believe that they're doing the right thing?_

Dean rolls his eyes as if he can hear her thought process and doesn't approve. “Listen, lady, no disrespect, but I don't think you could handle knowing more about our world.” He leans in slightly and says in an exaggerated whisper, “Here's a hint: we’re not killing random civilians, if that's what you're thinking.”

Mrs. Ross blinks- that had been exactly what she was thinking. “How am I supposed to believe that?” She begins quietly. “How do I know? How do you know? Crazy people don't know they're crazy!” Her voice rises to a shout as fear floods through her. _Oh my god, these two little boys in front of me could be killers._

Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and he raises his hands in surrender. It's probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but because he's still holding the gun, it just scares her even more. He seems to realize the problem and carefully places the weapon on the ground next to him. “I'm not gonna hurt you. Just… please, don't go running off and telling everyone that we’re killers, or that we have a gun, or anything that you found out tonight. You probably think it will help, but in reality you're just gonna get a lot of people hurt.”

““Am I supposed to believe that?” Mrs. Ross demands. “For all I know, you're the ones hurting people! You thought I was a demon! You were gonna _shoot_ me!”

Dean winces. “Right. Sorry about that.”

The teacher lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Sorry about- you know what, forget it.” She begins to back away, stumbling a bit. “I’ll have you locked up! You and your demons and your vampires and your guns and your crazy!”

She starts to run.

Neither of them stop her. She had been a little afraid that they would- she knew that they could- but they didn't. Here she was, threatening to put them in either jail or a straitjacket, and they just let her.

That’s when she first feels doubt. _What if they're right? They seem like good people. I'm going to put them in jail, and they still don't shoot. They aren't the type of people to kill innocents. What if they're not crazy?_ Mrs. Ross dismisses the insane thought as quickly as it comes, but she can't stop the slight feelings of uncertainty that tickle at the back of her mind.

______________________________________________________________________

 

Mrs. Ross arrives home, collapsing on her kitchen chair with a sigh. She buries her head in her hands, trying to sort through all the events of the day. Suddenly, she feels a comforting hand on her back.

“Bad day at work?” Her husband asks.

“You have no idea.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No, thanks,” she responds, a bit confused. That was odd. Mr. Ross was a man of few words, who didn't usually talk unless pushed. It was rather unusual for him to be suggesting conversation. _Whatever, he's probably just concerned. I might be acting a little weird. I mean, I_ did _just get held at gunpoint by two kids who thought I was a demon._

“So what's for dinner?” Her husband’s voice breaks through her thoughts, and that's so weird that she pulls away from his hand to stare at him.

“I can't cook. You know that. You always make dinner,” she tells him slowly.

He laughs slightly. “Right. Of course. Do you want me to make chicken?”

“Donald, I've been a vegetarian for eight years.”

“Kidding!” He says. She frowns. Is it just her imagination, or does he sound nervous?

“What's going on?” Mrs. Ross asks slowly.

“Nothing!” He insists, but he sounds uncharacteristically defensive.

She gets up from her chair. “Something’s wrong here,” she says, taking a small step back.

Mr. Ross’s nervous grin fades, replaced by a malicious smirk.

“Donald, what-”

His eyes turn black.

She lets out a scream. _Oh my god it's all true he's a monster my husband is a monster he's not my husband I'm going to die._ Panicked thoughts rapidly flit through her mind as she starts to run away.

He's faster than her, though, and stronger. Within a matter of seconds, he's caught her and pinned her up… _without his hands._ He just gave a vague gesture in her direction, and suddenly she was slamming into the wall. Mrs. Ross struggles, but it's as if some invisible force is holding her down; she can't move.

Mr. Ross steps closer to her, not appearing to be in any hurry.

The door slams open in another room, and his head jerks toward the sound with unnatural speed.

Sam and Dean charge into the room. He flicks his hand, and they join her on the wall… but not before Dean manages to pour holy water onto the monster. He sizzles where the water makes contact, letting out a scream as smoke rises from his body.

While he's weakened, Sam begins to chant something in Latin: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica..”

The demon flinches violently, jerking his head back with each word as if he's physically pained by the chant. He lets out an angry hiss, charging for the young boy as he continues to speak the Latin fluently.

“...adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio. Ergo draco maledicte…”

The demon that looks like Mr. Ross grabs the boy around the neck, cutting him off.

Dean picks up the chant, and the demon drops the younger boy, continuing to jerk its head back, more and more aggressively as the Latin continues.

“...securi tibi, facias libertate servire…”

The creature starts after Dean, but his brother picks up the chant:

“...te rogamus…”

Together, they say the final line: “Audi nos!” (but Dean adds a ‘bitch’ for good measure)

The demon collapses to its knees, letting out a screech as a black cloud flies from it's mouth. Once the substance is completely gone from its body, it slumps forward onto the ground. A second later, it opens its eyes.

“Martha?” The demon says, sounding confused. “What happened?”

Mrs. Ross stares at the boys, and Sam gives her a small smile. Dean nods, with a quiet, “It's gone. That's your husband now.”

She lets out a choked sob, rushing forward and hitting the ground besides Mr. Ross, wrapping her arms around him as she weeps. He hesitantly returns the hug, and she doesn't bother to explain- after all the terrifying events of that day, she feels entitled to a small breakdown.

By the time she pulls herself together enough to look up, the brothers are gone.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The next day at school, Dean has math second period. He consciously ignores Mrs. Ross’s attempts to catch his eye. He goes out of his way to go nowhere near her desk during the class.

Finally, when class is over and she still hasn't gotten his attention, she gives up on subtlety and says, “Dean, could you please come to my desk?”

He hesitates, and for a second she thinks he's just going to make a run for it, but instead he approaches her desk slowly. “Am I in trouble?”

“No! No, you're not in trouble. I just… I wanted to say thank you. For yesterday.”

Far from looking pleased, Dean immediately tenses as she voices her gratitude. “Don't talk about it,” he hisses. “Not to me, not to your husband, not to anyone. If you do, you'll end up getting my brother and me killed. You and Mr. Ross, too, probably.”

“W-what? Why? I thought you killed the demon!” She cries, shock causing her to raise her voice.

He claps a hand over her mouth. His eyes widen when he realizes what he's done, and he removes it quickly. “Sorry. I just- you can't say stuff like that. You'll get put in a mental hospital if anyone hears you. And yes, Sammy and I killed the demon. But there are more out there. There are always more. And not just demons, there are all the things we talked about yesterday. Werewolves and vampires and ghosts and chupacabras and wendigos and they’ll all come after you if they know that you know they're out there.”

“So… you and your brother kill all those things?”

Dean gives a tense nod.

“Why?”

The boy starts; this obviously wasn't what he expected. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”

“I mean, why do you do what you do? Why is it up to you and your brother? Why did you start hunting these things?”

Dean’s face darkens. “We were raised into it,” he says shortly.

“Your father raised you in something as dangerous as this?” she asks incredulously.

“Don't say it like that, he's not the bad guy here. He's a hero. He only taught me because a demon killed my mom. We’re trying to kill it. We’ve been hunting it for years. Since my mom died, my dad knew it was unnatural. Everyone said it was just a house fire, but he knew different. The demon- it slit my mom’s stomach opened and pinned her to the ceiling and burned her.” Dean’s voice trembles slightly. “We need revenge.”

Mrs. Ross covers her mouth with her hand as he talks about his mother’s brutal death, but she keeps her voice surprisingly steady as she asks, “How will you know when you find that specific demon?”

“You know how when Mr. Ross was possessed, his eyes turned black?”

Mrs. Ross nods, shuddering slightly as she remembers watching her husband’s friendly eyes darken into two black holes.

“Well, all demons do that; they turn their host’s eyes black. Except for the demon that killed my mom. My dad saw it that night- its eyes were yellow. When we find a demon with yellow eyes, that's how we’ll know it's the one that murdered her.”

“Then why do you kill all those other things?” She asks softly. He looks confused, so she continues. “You could just hunt that demon with the yellow eyes, and not bother with everything else. You didn't have to save me or my husband, and you didn't have to kill all the other demons and ghosts and werewolves and all the monsters I don't know about.”

“But then we’d be as good as killers,” Dean says quietly. “If we could save those people and hunt those things, but instead we abandoned them and let them die, we’re just as bad as the monsters.”

She looks at him for a long time, trying to decide what to say to that. There’s only one thing to say, she realizes: “Thank you.”

Surprise flickers in his green eyes. “What for?”

“For saving us.”

He still looks startled, but a hesitant smile creeps onto his face, and he turns to go. Once he reaches the door, he pauses. “You're welcome.”

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Mrs. Ross is unsurprised when Dean doesn't show up for school the next day. She's sad, but not surprised. His final words to her held an air of finality that told her that he wouldn't be coming back. 

So when he doesn't show up after the weekend, or the next day, or the next day, she's prepared. She knows he's gone for good. 

When Mr. Lindento asks her if he said anything to her about where he might be going, she just smiles secretly. She knows exactly where he is, what he's doing. 

He's saving people.   
He's a hero.


End file.
